


The Bleeding

by davidrossiismydad



Series: James Balian [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Gay Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29724897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davidrossiismydad/pseuds/davidrossiismydad
Summary: Agent James Balian somehow survives the BAU, trading one life of pain for another.
Series: James Balian [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184588
Kudos: 2





	The Bleeding

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> This is the fic that used to be Fine Line, but for very creative reasons because I got inspired, it's not that. 
> 
> I hope you guys like this!

“Make a wish,” Elle says. I look up to where smoke is ascending from Spencer’s desk.

“Come on, man. Blow, baby! Blow!” Derek yells with a chuckle.

“I thought you were full of hot air, Reid,” Elle teases.

“Come on, Reid!”

“They’re trick candles, Spence. Okay?” JJ cuts in. “They’re gonna come back on every time.”

“Oh, Mommy to the rescue,” Derek coos, shaking Spencer’s head.

“Mommy?” Spencer asks.

“Hey, James. Come join the celebration,” Elle says. I shake my head and look away from the Latina woman smiling at me. “Oh, you’re no fun. Ignore him, Spencer.”

“This is work time, not fun time,” I dryly comment. “The distinction between the two is very important to me. And no, I won’t have any cake.”

“Okay then, suit yourself.”

“Hey, Reid, does this make you legal yet?”

“Uh….”

“Hope you like chocolate,” Elle says, turning her attention back to Spencer. I can hear a phone ring.

“Agent Hotchner?” Grant asks across the bullpen.

“Aw, look, you blew wax on the cake, man.”

“That slice is for Derek,” I comment.

“What? No way, why do I get the slice with wax on it?” Derek asks me. I look up from my work to see Spencer walk over to Gideon and watch their lips move.

“Hey, Spence, first piece for the birthday boy,” JJ says, holding a piece of cake out to him. “Spence, get over here. James, are you sure you don’t want some cake?” She turns to me, and I snap out of the zone I just went to.

“Huh-uh, no. I’m sure.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.”

“Birthday boy.”

“JJ, why don’t you feed it to him?” Derek teases.

“Sorry, guys. Party’s over,” Hotch says from the phone. I close the notebook I was working in and slide it into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder and heading up to the round table. The rest of the team meets me up there, and we take our seats. “We’re going to San Diego,” he tells us.

“Not for the surfing, huh?” Derek asks.

“Nope,” I comment.

“They’re calling him the Tommy Killer,” JJ says, handing us each files.

“Six women raped and murdered in their homes in the last three weeks.”

“Six in three weeks?” Elle asks.

“Two a week,” I add. “Short fuse.”

“And getting shorter. The first two were eight days apart, then the next four in two weeks.”

“Rapid escalation,” Spencer comments. “Do you think he’s regressing to a psychopathic frenzy?”

“No, he’s too controlled for that,” Hotch answers. “See you on the plane.” I raise my eyebrows and look up from the file, watching our boss leave. Okay, weirdo.  
“Why the Tommy killer?” Derek asks.

“You know the rock opera?”

“Uh...that was by The Who, right?” I ask.

“Yeah. This unsub glues his victims’ eyes wide open,” Hotch answers as he walks away.

“Tommy was blind as a result of psychosomatic disability, though…”

“He wants them to see him.”

“And feel him,” Gideon adds.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Brenda Samms was found yesterday by her children when they got home from school,” Hotch says. “She had been strangled with a thin ligature, possibly a wire.”

“No weapon left at the scene.”

“Residue on the wrist and mouth indicate that duct tape was used and removed.”

“Also not found at the scene.”

“Brought it with him, took it with him.”

“Why?” I ask, looking over the crime scene photos.

“He also started leaving messages at the fourth scene. This was on the mirrors,” Hotch says, holding up the picture of the mirror covered in lipstick. “Fire lady, lay your costly robes aside. No longer may you glory in your pride. Take leave of all your carnal vain delight-”

“I’ve come to summon you away this night,” Spencer finishes.

“That’s not in Tommy,” I comment, looking at him.

“No, it’s a ballad from the late 1600s. A Dialogue Betwixt Death And A Lady,” he answers.

“Lovely.”

“A seventeenth-century ballad?” Elle asks.

“Yeah, a woman essentially begging death to live.”

“What kind of person knows this ballad?”

“Are we looking for a literature professor?” JJ asks.

“Anyone with an internet connection, actually. You should see what comes in when you type the word Death into a search engine.”

“Reid, no wonder you can’t get a date,” Derek teases.

“Reid, Balian, you two stay on the messages. See if there’s a deeper meaning,” Gideon says.

“Well, it definitely looks like he ransacked the crime scene pretty well.”

“Lot of damage, but nothing taken.”

“The eyes are the thing, the signature.”

“The behaviour that isn’t necessary for the murder, but necessary for the emotional release...that’s what he’s there for...” I comment, pulling out my notebook and writing notes in it. “It’s one collar, two sleeves, right?” I ask.

“What are you talking about?”

“There’s a trick to how to spell necessary. It’s like explaining a shirt. One collar, two sleeves.”

“Yas, it’s one collar, two sleeves.”

“Thank you, JJ.”

“There used to be a widely held belief that the eyes record a snapshot of the last thing a person sees before they die,” Spencer cuts in.

“Yeah, that’s right. People used to write poems about talking to death.”

“Ballads.”

“Whatever.”

“You think they’ll ever run out of new things to do to their victims?”

“Well, finding new ways to hurt each other is what we’re good at.”

“Right. Spencer, can you write down the poem for me? I’d ask you to recite it, but I couldn’t keep up,” I ask, sliding my notebook his way.

“Uh, sure.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“My name is Death. Have you not heard of me?” Spencer whispers, staring at one of the verses pinned to the evidence board. “You may as well be mute…”

“Creepy, huh?” JJ asks.

“Actually, conversations between death and his victims was a fairly popular literary and artistic theme throughout the Renaissance…” He peers over to JJ’s face. “Yeah. Creepy.”

“Thank you for making this James-friendly. So, uh, if this pattern sticks through, this is how it plays out?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not include the lady’s verses?”

“If the unsub is writing as Death, then it wouldn’t make sense for the lady to respond,” Spencer replies to me.

“Why start with the messages now? There were three other murders, why no messages until now?” I ask.

“Maybe he’s evolving.”

“Why would he evolve? He’s spending more time at the scenes now, what with writing the message, and the cool off period is getting shorter... Gideon? Where are you going?” I ask, trailing off at the sight of Gideon and Derek following someone out.

“We’re going to the crime scene. Come on.”

“Cool.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“This profiling really works?” The detective asks as we ride down a street.

“It’s a tool,” Derek replies.

“You can tell all about a guy from looking at the scene?”

“The scene’s only part of it. We also use victimology, precedent. We can usually get a fairly clear picture of the guy.”

“Our guys went over it pretty well.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Local officers aren’t trained to look for the things we look before.”

“What’s that?”

“Hate, insecurity, fear, anger.”

“That’s all in the scene?”

“It’s all in the behaviour,” I comment.

“You know anything about our guy yet?”

“Yeah,” Gideon replies. “He isn’t gonna stop until he’s caught.” We pull up beside the house with perfectly trimmed green grass surrounding us, in every yard. As we get out and walk to the house, a cruiser drives by us. “You increased patrols in this neighbourhood when the pattern was identified?”

“After the fourth victim. Bosses cancelled days off, vacations.”

“Neighbourhoods full of cruisers, and he still struck two more times,” Derek comments.

“He blends. Gideon,” he answers his phone. “Attempt?”

“Damn,” I whisper to Derek.

“Well, we’re already at the last crime scene. Let us know if you identify a suspect,” Gideon replies, ending the call.

“Suspect?”

“There might have been another attack not far from your station.” I watch as the detective turns back to walk to the cruiser.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I cut in, stepping in front of him.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks.

“Over there.”

“Sir, units are already heading that way. There’s not much you would be able to do there, we can get more accomplished here -”

“You’re kidding me, right?” The detective stares down into my eyes.

“No.”

“If there’s an arrest, what we find here will help you prosecute,” Derek answers.

“This scene won’t be pristine forever,” Gideon adds.

“Guys, knock yourselves out,” the detective responds, putting the house keys in my hands.

“Thank you-”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Derek asks, stopping the man from running off. “The unsub went through the back, right?”

“The family room. It’s the one full of print dust,” he replies before turning to run away.

“Gideon, we’re going around the house.” I then toss the keys at Gideon and chase Derek around the side of the house, we climb over the gate and head to the family room window that was propped open, and we climb through it, carefully climbing the furniture until we get to the floor.

“Okay, it’s not that easy to manvuever.”

“Athletic,” I reply, helping pull him off of the armchair. We head to the kitchen, and Derek hands me crime scene photos.

“Alright, he messed with something in here.” I look around at the modern kitchen, feeling like I had walked into a friend’s house in Alexandria again.

“Microwave door’s open,” I comment, looking inside and closing it.

“Broken cappuccino machine. Took the appliances, which are upstairs. Why?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would I take the time?” We continue our tour around the house, leaving the kitchen and heading into the dining room. “Here's where I got the china...the silver.” I look to the open silverware box. “I didn’t take it, I broke it.”

“There’s a scene in Tommy where he throws all his mom’s riches into the water,” I add.

“Why wouldn’t she hear me?”

“Because she was blaring something upstairs.”

“Or I did it after.”

“Why stay afterwards for that long?” I follow Derek up the stairs, to the bedroom, where we meet Gideon staring at the TV.

“She had a workout video on,” he tells us. “Stepaerobics.” I told you so.  
“Stepaerobics? With the platforms? Step up, down, step up, step down?”

“It can be fun,” I retort, looking around the bedroom floor. “Where’s the platform?” Gideon turns to the bed, getting on his knees and peering underneath it.

“He spent a lot of time here.”

“What, so he vacuumed? I mean, there’s no marks from the platforms.”

“A lot of time. We established this. The broken things, the message, the vacuuming-”

“The broken things. She must have been dead or incapacitated when he did that,” Derek cuts me off. “Cappuccino from the kitchen, dishes, vases, broken jewellery.”

“Symbols,” Gideon answers, sitting on the bed. “Your riches, gold, garments, jewels bright. Your house and land must on new owners light.”

“Is it just me, or do I just not understand that sentence?” I ask.

“Her riches,” Derek replies.

“Right.”

“You ever feel like there’s something obvious right in front of you, you just can’t see it?”

“A lot,” I nod.

“Yeah, usually right before a woman dumps me.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The verses,” Spencer walks up to us as soon as we come back.

“You found something?” I ask.

“Uh, not an answer, a question. I found the full text. He’s pretty much following it to a T, a least the death side of the conversation.”

“Okay. What’s your question?”

“Why didn’t he leave them at the first three murders? I mean, this ballad is ten verses long, just on the death side, he’s got plenty to work with. But if it’s not part of his signature, if it isn’t something he has to do for an emotional reason, then, I mean, why start?”

“JJ,” Gideon asks, grabbing her attention. “Find out when the press ran the first story on this unsub.”

“When?”

“After which victim.”

“Yeah, you got it.” She picks up the phone.

“What are you thinking?”

“He wasn’t getting enough attention.”

“Narcissist? I mean, claiming you’re speaking as Death is a pretty big grandeur. It’s saying that you control life, you’re the thing to fear.”

“Police departments sometimes don’t even know they’re looking at a pattern.”

“Yeah, until somebody tells them. Balian, see me, feel me. Remember that. Tommy.”

“The first story ran the morning after the fourth victim was found,” JJ tells us.

“The increased patrols didn’t begin until after the fourth victim, either,” Derek adds.

“Yeah, the police didn’t realise what was happening, he writes his verse.”

“And everyone knows he was there.” I look behind me to see Hotch and Elle walking in.

“The offender in this new attempt is a black male.”

“Black male? Cross racial- that doesn’t happen.”

“What about Herbert Mullin, he killed fourteen people of completely varying ages, races, and creeds.”

“There was no sexual component to his crimes, he was a paranoid schizophrenic that was under the delusion that he could prevent earthquakes with murder,” I ramble.

“This attacker wore a ski mask,” Elle adds.

“Tell em we’re ready?”

“For a profile?” I ask Gideon.

“We’re gonna make Tommy contact us.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“The unsub brought his weapons with him. Tape, glue, wire. He did not leave them at the scene,” Gideon says. “He took them when he left. He has a kind of killing kit that he carries.”

“Organised killers usually have a skilled job, likely technology related, which may involve the use of the hands,” Hotch adds with his arms crossed. “The crime scenes are far enough apart that he needs a vehicle. This will be well kept, obsessively clean, as will be his home.” Gideon has found a spot, sitting next to me on a desk. “He’s diurnal, the attacks occurred during the day, so the vehicle may be related to his work, possibly a company car or truck.”

“We believe he watches the victims for a time, learns the rhythms of the home, knows his time frame,” Derek comments.

“You’re not gonna catch him accidentally,” Hotch continues.

“He destroys symbols of wealth in the victims’ homes,” Gideon gets up and paces to the boards at the front of the room. “He harbours envy and hatred toward people of a higher social class. He feels invisible around them.”

“Class is the theme of the poem which he left at the various crime scenes,” Spencer cuts in. “At one point in the poem, the woman attempts to bribe death, but he doesn’t accept it, he says this is the one moment when riches mean nothing. When death comes, the poor and the rich look exactly alike.”

“So, he’s poor?”

“Probably middle class,” Hotch answers. “A lower-class person would significantly stick out in a highly patrolled neighbourhood. This guy appears to belong there. He blends in.”

“Why does he glue the eyes open?”

“The unsub is an exploitative rapist,” Elle interjects. “Most rape victims close their eyes during the attack, turn their heads. For some rapists, this ruins the fantasy. For this type of rapist, the goal is more related to the victim watching him than the act itself.”

“The verses, the staging, the aggressive language, “I am death. This is a guy who, while being in control at the crime scene, almost certainly feels inadequate in the rest of his life.”

“That’s why he couldn’t wait for you to figure out what he’d done. Why he needed to make sure all his crimes were counted. His victims,” Gideon stands up again from a chair, “they represent whatever it is that’s controlling him, and he wants that control back. He is under the thumb of a powerful woman who frightens him. And a final point. He is white.”

“We have witnesses that identify him as a black male,” the chief argues.

“The attacker was black, but he’s not the Tommy Killer. Mrs Gordon’s husband came home at the same time he always does. The Tommy Killer would’ve known that-”

“And Mrs Gordon’s attacker wore a ski mask,” Elle cuts me off. “The unsub knows when he walks into a house, he’s going to kill the woman who lives there. If you’re not leaving any witnesses, why wear a ski mask?”

“And he wants the victim to see him anyway.”

“Your attempted rapist is a garden variety, disorganised young man.”

“As the victim’s age goes up, generally, the attacker’s age goes down. Mrs Gordon is about sixty, which puts her rapist at about twenty.”

“And it takes years to develop the level of calm and sophistication that Tommy displays at ta crime scene, and the rapist is far too young for that.”

“Mrs Gordon told me that there’s a young man who delivers groceries to their home. He fits a lot of what we’re describing here.”

“Great. So we’re back to zero on Tommy.”

“Not at all. May I see you in your office for a moment?” Hotch asks, walking off with the chief.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You really watched the opera on the plane?” Gideon asks me.

“Yeah. I didn’t exactly remember it all, and I wanted to be able to determine if this unsub really fell like he was Tommy,” I answer. “And I figured I could do that by comparing details of the movie to the unsub, you know, since they call him the Tommy Killer… you know, that bugged me the most.” I turned to Gideon, facing him. “I couldn’t figure out how this was connected to Tommy at all, except for the riches in Brenda Samm’s house being destroyed and Tommy throwing his mom’s riches into the sea.”

“I could tell you found the opera fun to watch,” Gideon replies.

“Elton John caught me off guard, and I love rock music.”

“He confessed to Mrs Gordon’s attack before we even got to the car,” Elle struts in.

“Thanks, Elle.”

“Should just make the eleven o clock news,” JJ states.

“Did they get good footage?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t miss him.”

“Good. Now we wait.”

“Call Garcia.”

I pull out my phone and speed dial, reaching her in moments.

“Go for Ms Penelope Garcia,”  
“I got her on,” I say, handing JJ my phone.

“You ready for the trap and trace?”

“Peaches, this is the office of unmitigated superiority. I am always ready. With the awesome power I have in this room, all I need is fifteen seconds on the phone to nail this skeevy perv.”  
“Fifteen seconds.”

“If that.”  
“That’s not bad,” I comment.

“Not bad? What do I have to do to impress you, Agent Balian?”  
“Didn’t mean it like that, you are already impressive.”

“Uh-huh.” She then hangs up on me, and I pocket my phone. “I’m no Derek Morgan.”

“Yeah, clearly. You need game with the ladies.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t need game if I’m not gonna play,” I retort.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Still waiting, Garcia,” JJ says into a phone.

“God, I hate waiting like this,” Elle complains from the desk I’m at, flipping something over.

“Do you think it’s weird that I knew that ballad?”

“Spencer, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but everybody has that tidbit of knowledge that nobody else has,” I state. She scoffs.

“I don’t know how it is that you know half the things you know, but I’m glad you do.”

“Do you think it’s why I can’t get a date?”

“Don’t listen to Derek. What works out for some people doesn’t work out for others,” I don’t even look up from my book.

“Have you ever asked anyone out on a date?” Elle asks.

“No.”

“That’s why you can’t get a date.” A phone rings from another desk.

“Detective Martin.”

“That’s what that guy’s name was? Martin?” I ask quietly. “Did I even introduce myself?”

“Hey, hey,” I hear a whisper, and Derek throws his hand up.

“Line six, Penelope, line six,” JJ says. Gideon gets up from the chair he’s chilling in, and we take the call as Hotch and Gideon run over to us.

“You stupid, incompetent sons of bitches! I don’t make mistakes! I am death! You hear me?! I am death! You’ll see now. Tomorrow. Mark my words, you will see. And while I’m taking her, I’m gonna be thinking of you.” He then hangs up, and I pull my head back in disgust and confusion.

“Anything?” JJ asks. “She says she got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Derek exclaims.

“We missed him?” Hotch asks. Thinking about the FBI while you’re getting off? What kind of statement is that?  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We have an undercover car for each of your teams, and the entire damn department out there, too.”

“Remember, a truck. Maybe a work truck, in excellent condition.”

“Everyone knows.”

“Alright, he might make a mistake today.”

“He’s angry, and he probably hasn’t done the surveillance he’d like.”

“Yeah, well, neither have we. Let’s go, Reid,” Derek says, claiming the beanpole.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Elle sighs, then leaves. I look to Gideon, then to Hotch. He gently pat’s Gideon’s arm.

“We’ll find him,” he says before leaving.

“There’s no way we just gave Tommy another victim,” I sigh.

“Profilers make mistakes, too.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A cell phone rings, bringing Hotch and me out of our silence.

“What you got?”

“Put it on speaker,” I comment, and he does so.

“He’s a phone technician, Hotch. Police are looking for someone walking around the neighbourhood in broad daylight. Who notices a phone guy up on a pole?” I look from the phone to the phone poles, connected by miles of wire.

“He can watch for husbands leaving for work, watch for police patrols, know when the neighbourhood’s quiet.”

“He knows when he’ll have plenty of time. He can even tap into a phone line to make sure someone’s home. How about routing a call through twenty-five substations?”  
“Twenty-five?” I ask.

“Yeah. Backyard? Hey, he’s just looking for a pole. Got tape? Of course he does. Wire? He’s a repairman.”  
“Sounds right, Jason.”

“It is right. And we have his name.”  
“We do? We have his name?” I ask Hotch as he looks at me and flips his phone shut.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Oh, I almost forgot. I have something for you,” Gideon says, pulling something out of his go-bag. “Forgot to give it to you at the party.”

“But you don’t give birthday presents,” Spencer remarks, taking the blue box with the red ribbon and opening it. “Wow...the Red...skins…”

“Reid, you got football tickets. And if I can count, there’s two of them,” I explain. “Why the Redskins, though?”

“It’s a VIP box,” Gideon explains.

“Whoa.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Ever been to a pro football game?” Gideon asks.

“No, I honestly didn’t even know this was football,” Reid laughs, examining the tickets.

“You’re gonna love it.”

“We are, you’re coming with me, right?” Spencer asks.

“No. Someone else on the plane is a huge Skins fan.”

“It’s not me,” I volunteer.

“Who?”

“Only person in the whole world who calls you Spence.” I look over the back of the seat at JJ, who reads a newspaper.

“No way, dude.”

“JJ?”

“She’s a huge Redskins fan.” Spencer looks back at her.

“Wh-what should I say?” Gideon just stares at him, and he tucks the tickets into his shirt pocket, getting up from the seat. He stops and stares at the board. “Checkmate,” he moves a piece.

“What? What?” I exclaim, looking back as he goes to sit with JJ. “Why did you just do that to him?”


End file.
